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The Uncrucified Buddha

He squats all gold
unpierced by nails—
head crowned by sunlight
no blood stains, no spear or vinegar
hand raised, the scent of rosewater

you must sit
like a withered tree before a cliff
and be absolutely quiet in concentration
the fragile flesh is sheer gold
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Saturday, December 6, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: spirituality
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COMMENTS
Matt Mooney 27 April 2015
I love the title and I like where this poem went and to where it brings you.
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